


“I’m not dead, anymore. I promise.”

by bombhumpa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: An alternative return, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombhumpa/pseuds/bombhumpa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just an alternative return of the great Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“I’m not dead, anymore. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my computer, it made the paragraphing look so weird and ugly. Apologies.  
> Kind of a request. I tried, but I don't think I managed very well. This is not one of my best works, but at least it's something.

Years. It had been years since Sherlock had set a foot in London.

 Molly had helped him fake his death. And Mycroft, of course Mycroft had. ‘He had said it was because of ‘brotherly compassion’. Sherlock didn’t know what to think about that, but at least he’d gotten help.

 After months of being tortured by the last existing men in Moriarty’s network the detective was free. Mycroft had –after all- saved him.

 ---

“How’s John?” Sherlock asked his brother.

 He was half lying down, getting the ugly beard of his finally shaven away. Mycroft had insisted, and Sherlock hadn’t denied it. A hot shower and a haircut had been much appreciated.

 Mycroft didn’t answer the question.

 “I asked, how’s John?” His tone was sharper now, more alerted. He slowly changed himself into a sitting position, trying to hide the pain he was in. “Answer me, Mycroft. How is he?”

 It took the elder brother a while, but eventually he caught Sherlock’s gaze, holding it. “He’s not good, Sherlock. He’s been alone for so long. He’s tried to kill himself thrice.” Mycroft broke the eye contact with his brother. “First it was with his own gun, he tried to shoot himself. Lestrade talked him into his right senses, at least that time.” Now Mycroft was leaning slightly against his desk, eyeing the detective, trying to read him. It was impossible. “The second time was exactly one year after your death. He attempted to hang himself. Luckily Mrs. Hudson was coming with tea and took him downstairs, keeping an eye on him until Lestrade came.” He sighed. He couldn’t tell Sherlock about the third time, could he?

 Sherlock nodded. “And the third time?” His tone was cold. He was hiding his feelings extremely well, still he knew that his brother knew. They both knew, _how fitting_.

 Mycroft nodded. “He tried to jump. It was just a few weeks ago. He tried to jump from the same roof as you did.”

 Sherlock shook his head. It couldn’t be true. Yet he knew it was, and he knew it was all his fault. “I’m going to see him, to tell him I’m not dead.”

 ---

Sherlock was walking the well familiar streets of London. Mycroft had told him that John still was living at Baker Street, but Sherlock wasn’t heading that way, No, he had to see Lestrade first. To thank the detective inspector for having taken care of John, even though he believed it mostly was because Mycroft had told him so. “Mycroft and Gavin”, he silently muttered. Or was it Geoff? Sherlock never remembered his brother’s boyfriend’s first name.

  Sherlock arrived at the crime scene where Lestrade was, watching him from distance. When he was alone Sherlock walked at his direction. “You’re wrong, you know. She wasn’t strangled, she was poisoned and thenthe murderer made it _look_ like his victim was strangled.”

 Lestrade turned around, jumping backwards when he saw the detective.

 “Oh you bastard”, Lestrade muttered whilst Sherlock was just standing there, grinning. “Come here.” Lestrade embraced him in a great hug. “I knew you weren’t dead”, the detective inspector proudly said. “I knew you were coming back.”

 ---

Baker Street. _221b Baker Street._ Sherlock was standing in front of the familiar door, still he was hesitating. Lestrade had offered him coffee, but Sherlock had said no. He needed to see John.

 “He’s probably at Baker Street, sitting in his chair, staring at yours. He does that all the time”, Lestrade had told him. Sherlock had just nodded, and with the words “I’ll see you later” Sherlock had left the crime scene.

 The detective silently made his way up the stairs to their flat. The key Mycroft had given him felt strange in his hand. Slowly he opened the door to the flat.

 The dust was thick in the air. The curtains were preventing the most of the light from outside to enter the flat. And then there was John, _his_ John. Sherlock was taken aback by the sight. He was so thin, so worn out. The cane beside the chair, the slight tremble in his hand. It looked like he had worn the same clothes for weeks. John wasn’t like Lestrade. He hadn’t just moved on with his life.

 Sherlock approached the doctor, sitting down in his own chair. “John.” Sherlock tried to catch the blond’s gaze, but it was impossible. “I’m home.”

 The doctor was looking at Sherlock. No, he was looking past Sherlock, as if the detective was invisible. Slowly John returned to the present, slowly shaking his head. “No. No, no, no. It can’t be.” His voice was raspy, he hadn’t used it for quite a while. “You’re dead, Sherlock. You’re dead.” The tone in his voice was cold, rejecting.

 Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t know what to do. “I’m not dead, anymore. I promise.” He stood up and walked over to the doctor, putting his hand over John’s slightly trembling one. “See? You can touch me. I’m not one of your ghosts.” He kept his voice steady, even though it was on the edge to breaking. He hadn’t thought that his absence would make so much damage.

 John’s hand hesitantly grabbed the detective’s. “How is it possible? I saw you that day. I took your pulse. I- I…-” John trailed off, tears were rolling down his cheeks.

 Sherlock looked at him with pity. “It’s okay, John”, he whispered. “I know that you’re scared, and surprised. You’re overwhelmed by emotions, and that’s okay.” Sherlock leaned in and gave the doctor an awkward hug.

 ---

A week. A week since Sherlock returned from the dead.

 He and John lives at Baker Street.

 John is slowly gaining weight. His limp has disappeared. It did as soon as Sherlock took him out for dinner, the first proper meal John had had for months. It had been just the two of them at Angelo’s. Just like the first day they had met each other.

 Their flat at Baker Street is still a mess, but Mrs. Hudson is helping them dusting it off and cleaning it up, although she strongly insists that she’s not their housekeeper.

 John’s bedroom upstairs is empty. It has been since the day of the fall. The two of them –John and Sherlock- share Sherlock’s bed, with the explanation that ‘it’s bigger’. They both know that’s not why.

 Now and then John wakes up in the middle of the night, his nightmares still hunting him. Sherlock is always there to comfort him.

 Sometimes Sherlock screams in his sleep. John’s always there, just like Sherlock is for him, because that is what people do for each other. They help and support. They carry each other.


End file.
